brittreadsandwrites

[brittreadsandwrites]

Lil’ sci-fi number – I wrote this for my short story class last semester. [Please excuse the formatting, tumblr is a mess]

[brittreadsandwrites]

“The Man in the Flower Shop”

I twisted the florist tape around a freshly arranged bouquet and swore as a thorn stabbed my finger.

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath and reached for a cloth to stop the bleeding. 

A moment later, a chime from the shop door’s bell reverberated throughout the studio, pulling me from my head and back into the present. I carefully placed my work in progress on a stand and washed my hands in the basin. Water dripped from my hands as I followed the noise into the front of the shop. A man was there. From his broad shoulders to the way his raglan hugged his back, he looked strong. Appearances can be deceiving though, I know – not that my customer’s form had anything to do with his ability to purchase flowers from me. I knew it was inappropriate to think of my customers like that and attempted to reprimand myself for my wayward thoughts. I wasn’t sorry though, not really. The man turned around and smiled.

“Good morning, Sir,” I said from behind the counter. He looked at me in the strangest way. Perhaps he didn’t like being called sir.

“Let me know if I can help you with anything.” He simply smiled in return and continued to browse. Sometime later though he approached me.

“Do you happen to have sunflowers by any chance?” he asked, expectantly. Unfortunately, I didn’t and was forced to watch as the hope drained from his eyes. I can’t recall whether it was the structure of his jaw or the way the light caught in his eyes through the shop window, but I had the most distinct feeling that I had seen him somewhere before. The man had returned to his perusing. I couldn’t help but stare as he surveyed every bunch that I arranged that morning. He tested their weight and smelled each rose to find one that was just right. Eventually he selected a bouquet and walked towards the counter. The bouquet was wrapped in brown butchers paper and sported a blush ribbon. It was one of my favourites – with dusty pink and cream roses, cotton and pampas grass and plenty of greenery, it was a perfectly balanced bunch. Just the right amount of classic and feminine.

“It is the eucalyptus gum in this bunch that speaks to me. The earthy smell transports me back to our first date. She would love this one,” he confessed. I wondered who she was, but it didn’t feel like the right the moment to ask. The man asked me my name as he handed me cash across the counter.

“Caroline,” I said and then he thanked me for my flowers and bid me farewell. The rest of the day passed in a blur, and so did the weeks that followed. No customers interested me the way the man had.

A month later the man returned, and it was almost exactly the same as our first encounter. He entered the store, asked me for sunflowers and then began his process of choosing his desired bouquet. I had been thinking about him constantly since his first visit. His strong back, his ginger beard and his round glasses, slightly crooked on his nose. He was very handsome. Consumed by my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed that he had approached the counter and begun speaking to me.

“Oh pardon! I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked him, hoping he didn’t think I was being rude.

“It’s no problem at all. I merely complimented you on your ability to create such beauty out of all these flowers,” he replied.

“The beauty is all theirs,” I said, “I simply arrange them together in a way that is pleasing to both my eyes and my heart.” He had chosen the peach coloured dahlias – I wondered what had made him choose them. Would she love the colour of the petals or the way they smelled? Again, the man interrupted my train of thought and asked me what I liked to do when I wasn’t in the flower shop.

“I paint,” I said, “Not very well, but I paint.” He seemed to like my answer; he smiled and thanked me for my flowers and bid me farewell.

Every fortnight after began the same way – 10:00 am on the dot, the man would enter my shop. Every time he asked me for sunflowers and it wasn’t hard to guess that they must have been her favourite. Whether it be the warmth of the yellow, the size of the petals or the strength of the stalk, every fortnight he would ask and every fortnight I wouldn’t have them. I could have ordered them from the local flower market, however in the past they never seemed to sell as well as my other collections. But to say that was my only reason would be a lie. I know it to be selfish, but I didn’t want her to have her favourite flower. Partly because they were my favourite too, but also because I believed that as long as I didn’t have them available, the man would keep coming in…

After half a dozen encounters I realised that in all of our short conversations, I had never asked him for his name. He had asked me mine, but I had never asked in return. The mysterious man in the flower shop. I realised how self-absorbed that must make me and though I was mortified, I hid my embarrassment the best I could and asked.

“Michael,” he said, “My name is Michael.” Strong name for a strong man, I thought. He laughed at me as if he had been waiting for me to realise my blunder the entire time.

“It’s a pleasure to be properly introduced,” he said, the chuckle still present in his voice. I tried to suppress my own laughter as I processed his order. He had chosen the peonies this time. They were the most beautiful fluffy pink peonies. I was so happy to have been able to purchase them at the flower market that morning: they were always hard to come by because of their supply and demand. He asked me another seemingly uninteresting question about myself, but was thrilled like always when I played along and answered. I was completely perplexed by the interest he had taken in me. He thanked me for my flowers and bid me farewell.

The rest of our year continued this way: he would enter my shop, smell all of the flowers and then buy some for the surreptitious woman he never said anything about. He would smile at me, ask me questions, flirt… Then he would simply thank me and leave. But one day, he didn’t. It was a crisp autumn morning, I remember because all of the leaves had fallen from the sycamore trees that lined my street; the array of apricot, honey and rust coloured leaves coated the ground like a blanket. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He arrived at 9:30 instead of 10:00 and I had just come back from the flower markets. I was running behind schedule and had only made it through half of my stock that morning – cold mornings always made it harder to get up and move. Covered in scratches and bruises and sporting some lovely green stained hands, I walked out into the shop to see him standing there. He was smiling from ear to ear, the most brilliant sunflowers in his hand.

“Caroline,” he said. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, so all I did was stand there and blink at him.

“I found the sunflowers,” he said. His smile illuminated his face in the most peculiar and beautiful way. His crooked glasses looked even wonkier, the lines around his eyes grew deeper and I swear his eyes even sparkled as he looked at me. It was probably just the reflection of light through the window again, but I liked my version better. The intense feeling of déjà vu returned.

“Congratulations,” I said, “Wherever did you find them?” I tried to project my best genuine smile – I was never very good at hiding my emotions, I would have made a terrible actor.

“I’m sure your wife is going to love them.” Of course I didn’t know that the woman he had been buying flowers for was his wife, but after a year it seemed like asking indirectly was the only way left to find out.

“Sweet Caroline,” he said, gently releasing a sigh.

“You’re right, my wife would have loved these – and love her back I’m sure they would have. Sadly, their sister bouquet rests above her. Wilting with each moment that passes.” I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Though he seemed serious, I didn’t know whether he was trying to be funny or poetic. I felt like I was being pranked – was someone going to jump out from behind the tulips and say ‘gotcha!’

“Pardon me?” I replied.

“Caroline, the sunflowers are for you.” Speechless, I stood there and stared at him. My eyes must have glazed over because suddenly he rushed forward to check if I was okay.

“You misunderstand me still,” he said. His voice was so gentle; his eyes kind.

“Caroline, I am a widower,” he waited for understanding to reach my eyes.

“My wife passed away.” The shop was completely silent as the words ricocheted through the room. Finally all the missing pieces had fallen into place.

“Every fortnight since that first morning I have come here for two reasons,” he spoke slowly, as if letting the words out tenderly would help unfold their blooms.

“The first was to find a way to honour my wife in her passing and to ease my guilt in wanting to move on. The second, lovely Caroline, was to see you again.” He inhaled a deep breath and smiled.

“I simply had to see you.” The pause danced around us; the magnetism pulling us closer. He began again, faster this time.

“I found that a smile or even the shortest of conversations with you would brighten my entire week and then I would be longing for more. I was enamoured with you after that first meeting – I had the strongest sense that I had known you from another time or another place. Shamefully, I’ll admit, I was scared to come back. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your flowers, so I had to… So I did.” 

“That’s when I realised.” The mischievous grin on his face taunted me.

“You’re not Caroline – you’re Carolina-Lee.” I didn’t need to see my face to know that all of the colour had drained from it.

“I remember the shy little girl with a dirty tan and freckles across her nose. She used to run around the cul de sac covered in paint.” Carolina-Lee. Nobody had called me that since I was a child. In teenage rebellion I had demanded my name be changed to Caroline or I would run away. Regretfully my parents followed suit. Whether they truly believed I would have run away or not, I never knew, but they respected my wishes enough to make the change. I rummaged through my mind: through every hallway and dusty cupboard until I found him. The small boy with dirty blonde hair and round glasses. Mikey. Michael. It wasn’t déjà vu at all. I knew this man – and he knew me. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there and looked at him, taking in every piece of him, trying to find the small parts of Mikey that were still visible. Shocked and light-headed, I began to laugh. It was definitely too early for this. I needed a coffee. I asked him if he would like to come out to the studio for a cup. In wordless response, he grinned at me, turned on his heel and switched the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ on the shop door.

In the weeks that followed, we spoke at length. During walks in the park we spoke of our childhood. During days spent in the studio, we spoke of college. Movie dates, brunch dates, eating take-out on the couch dates… all the time we spent together, was spent catching up on the past 18 years. He told me about his wife Annie, about the amazing woman she had been. One day he woke me early and explained that it was the second year anniversary of her death. He took me to her grave – it was first time he’d ever taken me there. It felt like an important step in our relationship. He shared with me that sunrise had been Annie’s favourite time of day and that she loved to paint also. The similarities between us were striking and I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what drew him to me. We brought her flowers and watched the day break over her grave.

“She would have loved this,” he said, “She would’ve wanted to paint it.” And so this became our tradition. Every fortnight I would make a bouquet and Michael would take it to her, and every two years we would watch the sun rise from above her home in the earth. This continued for some time; through our marriage and our children. Curiously, I didn’t feel like I was sharing him – the man in the flower shop. He belonged to two women, two hearts. Annie had loved him when I had not, and then she led him to me when she could not. Our man in the flower shop.

by Brittany Herak 29/ 08/ 2018

[brittreadsandwrites]

WRITING EXERCISE

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “The child stood glum and limp in the middle of the dark living room while his father pulled him into a plaid coat”

The child stood glum and limp in the middle of the dark living room while his father pulled him into a plaid coat.

“I don’t want you to go”, the boy pleaded, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. Crouching down to the child's eye level, the father took him into this arms and embraced him. 

“I must son, i’m sorry”, he explained. “I’ll be home again soon – it’ll go quick I promise. Just you wait and see.” The man wiped a tear off of the child’s cheek as he spoke. The father collected their bags and lead the boy out the front door.

It was raining outside the car. the child always loved it when the raindrops hit the windows. 

“Why do I have to stay with Aunty?” the boy begged. “She’s cranky and her cats don’t like to play with me.” he pouted. The father gave the boy a grim smile in response and turned a corner. 

“Because I can’t take you with me”, the father said, eyes spilling with tears.”

~B M.H

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WRITING EXERCISE

“They came into this world, together, but alone. And in the same way they left it.”

~B M.H

[brittreadsandwrites]

WRITING EXERCISE

“The wind roared around her, but still, she remained.”

~B M. H

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WRITING EXERCISE

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “I’m nine years old...”

I’m nine years old. I’m not a boring grown up all the rest – I don’t ever want to be. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t just see the sun shining, I feel it shining on my skin. I don’t hear the birds chirping, I hear them singing to me. If growing up means losing my sense of wonder of the world than I want no part in it. I’m nine years old – frozen in time, forever a child, forever an explorer... that’s what being a child means. It means being whatever you want to be – not stuck in a nine to five desk job waiting for your life to end. As I look outside my window, I see my reflection – only it’s not that of a nine year old, but of a twenty-nine year old. Much more haggard than I should look at this age. When did I stop feeling the sunshine on my skin? When did I stop feeling the sunshine on my skin and start feel the too-cold chill of the office air conditioner?  I can’t remember... Nevermind. I have the vaguest idea that someone is trying to speak to me – never they mind either. I’m not quite here anyway.

~ B M. H

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WRITING EXERCISE

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “I never learnt my father's real name”

I never learned my father’s real name. Dad, I called him. For eight years he was dad to me, and Cheeto to everybody else. When he became sick I thought about asking him, but it seemed cruel to take away a dying man’s mystery. He loved being my playful dad Cheeto. He loved running around the house making monkey noises and playing detectives with me. To let him pass as ‘Bill’ or ‘Jack’ would have been a tragedy. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t have – how was I to know? I was eight years old after all. Twelve years have passed now and I still haven’t discovered his true identity. Not knowing keeps him alive I think. It keeps the monkey in the hall and the detectives at work... But who was he really? A single dad without a name, without a story, leaving his daughter to wander the world a lone. It’s quite sad really.

~B M. H

[brittreadsandwrites]

Book Review

The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill My rating: 5 of 5 stars I absolutely loved The Girl Who Drank the Moon! It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting and I hadn't read any of the middle grade genre since Harry Potter, so coming and reading this was a really wonderful experience. It was everything I didn't know I needed! I'm still thinking about the book days on, even into another novel, and that is great. There are strong themes of love throughout and the story shows us the capacity of one's heart. I really think this can be enjoyed by all ages and I definitely recommend it. :-) ~ B M. H View all my reviews

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Book Review

Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas My rating: 5 of 5 stars Heir of fire! This book was fantastic. I loved seeing Celaena/Aelin's growth throughout the book - watching her go from broken to strong and powerful was something to behold. The addition of new characters and settings made the third book in the instalment much more interesting than its first two. It is obvious that Sarah's writing improves with each novel she produces and I am very much looking forward to catching up with Aelin in the next book. ~ B M. B View all my reviews

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Book Review

Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur My rating: 5 of 5 stars I absolutely loved this book! Like many people I picked it up for an aesthetic purpose, and though I cannot relate personally to her troubles as a poc, I still found myself again and again its in pages. Rupi is so raw and real and I have to commend her for that, and for her bravery in sharing it with the world. I intended to tab my favourite poems here and there and ending tabbing half the book. This collection of poems is surely something to behold. Definitely recommend! ~ B M. B View all my reviews

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Book Review

Everything, Everything by Nicola Yoon My rating: 4 of 5 stars I gave this book 4 out of 5 stars because I consumed it in just five hours. I was hesitant to begin with because teenage romance contemporaries are not my favourite. It took me a quarter way through the book for it to pick up and interest me, but once I was past this point I really enjoyed it. As a person who is caucasian and quite healthy, you would think it would be hard to relate to, but Yoon wrote Maddy to be more than just her illness and I found that admirable. I did expect the turn in plot towards the end, and that was my favourite part. ~ B M. B View all my reviews

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Journal entry: week 11

The final entry:  Short Creative Work

When you lick the tip of your fingers to turn the page – the crisp sound of the paper sends a chill down your spine and you’re filled with a kind of ecstasy only other readers can understand.  As your eyes follow the ink from left to right, a deal is being struck in the backstreets of Berdosa. Darkness blankets the evening markets – usually bustling with townsfolk, buying goods and haggling with stall merchants, the only flicker of life coming from the overhead lanterns. There wasn’t soul in sight; not a single cat prowling the roofs.

She was a renowned assassin and the only one of her calibre in Berdosa – A city, rightly named for its guilt and sin. It has the highest crime rate in all of Prythielda and yet the only job she has booked for the past month is for a dirtbag loan shark? Maybe leaving the Assassins Syndicate was a mistake, maybe she just isn’t cut out for the private sector.

“What’s his name?” She asked. “And what sort of time frame are you looking at?”

“Tale Balok,” replied Lionel Thatch. “I want the hit taken out tonight – before midnight.”

“Can I ask what Mr Balok has done to earn his death sentence?”

“It’s not your job to ask questions.”

She’d always hated Thatch. A greedy, greasy haired man with eyes like emeralds. She’d had several dealings him over the years, none of which were pleasant. She gave him a witty retort in response and held his piercing stare for a moment longer.

“Money upfront or I don’t make the hit.” She said. “ I don’t trust slimeballs like you Thatch to keep your agreements. I need a guarantee that I’m not taking an innocent life for nothing.”

“Fine, I’ll play your little game Kane, but only because you’re the best at what you do.” He said, almost enjoying the banter. “If I find you’ve not completed your work adequately, I will come for you just as I’ve come for him. I don’t care how pretty you are.”

“Oh Lionel, if you’re going to flirt with me, the least you can do is call me Lysandra.” Catching the satchel of money thrown her way, she backs up, disappearing into the inky black shadows of the alley.

The night air cool and frosty as she stumbled through the wooden doors into the dimly lit pub. The Hanging Man. Smelling off piss and liquor, it was her least favourite place to visit, especially on a weeknight. Dressed in her navy fur lined cloak, she was easily the best dressed person in the joint. Walking towards the bar, she conceals her face under her hood.

“A pint please,” She asks the back of the nearby bar tender.

“Aye, coming right up m’Lady.” said the young voice.

The young man turned around and set her drink down on the bench. It was Tale Balok, her target. His shaggy blond hair glinting under the bar lights. She was taken back by the sight of him – he looked so young; not yet an adult. Curiosity eating away at her, she asked him what he was doing working in a dingy place like The Hanging Man.

“I’ve worked ‘ere for two years m’Lady.” He said tiredly. “I’m an orphan ya see, m’folks died of influenza when I was just fifteen. I ‘ad to leave school and take up a job to pay the rent and take care of little Tarra. I’m all she’s got ya see.” She understood now what compelled a young boy to approach a filthy lender like Thatch – it was out of desperation and a duty of care. Lysandra, though her moral convictions as a trained assassin were lacking, decided she couldn’t end this poor boy's life and leave his little sister without a brother. Thanking him for his service she slipped a large tip under her empty pint and rose from the stool. The room falling silent as the wooden floor groans under her leather boots – the thought of squeaky floorboards snapping you back to reality as you remember walking barefoot across a creaky floor.

Knowing where Kane would track the boy too, Thatch waited inside the pub. Hidden in a booth out of sight, he sat amongst drunken men and smoke filled air while he watched the exchange between his man for hire and her target. He gaped as she exited The Hanging Man, her mark unmade. He was furious. Did he not make it clear what the consequences of crossing him would be?

She could feel him there, in the pub – like a warm foul-smelling breath whispering to her from each corner of the damp establishment. She knew better than to cross a crime lord like Thatch, but she’d made her choice and now she had to roll with it. She was never one for take-backs and she never admit her mistakes. She left swiftly out the pub doors and into the alleyway – only one flickering street lamp remains nearby to offer some level of protection. Running down the nearest road, she finds herself on the main street: the markets now bursting with light and laughter, she finally lets out a breath, slows her run to a fast walk and proceeds down the street. As you blend into the fiction; you’re no longer reading a story but are living in one instead – she could feel him on her tail, you can feel him on your tail, breathing down the back of her neck – your neck – the cool tickle of wind against her, creating goosebumps along her skin.  She didn’t dare look back to see where he was, she only quickened her pace turning corner after corner until she was thoroughly lost within the city. When you turn the pages faster and rougher, when you struggle for breath as she does, when she sees a shadow and your heartbeat quickens in distress and the words on the page begin to blur as you lose concentration.

Thatch knew the inner workings of Berdosa like the back of his hand – He knew where to buy drugs, unregistered weapons and all other facets of the black market. It wasn’t hard to determine the route she would take. She might be a skilled hitman but he had years of experience hunting down clients with unpaid debts. He circled around the city to block her escape; his knife ready to plunge into her skin as she rounded the corner.

“You can run, you can hide, but I will still find you.” He echoed through the streets. “It is only a matter of when, Kane.”

She could hear his deep voice ricochet through the winding streets around her. Panting slightly, Lysandra turned down another road. Unfamiliar with this end of town, she ran directly into Thatch. Realising, as her abdomen screamed with pain, that it wasn’t a shadow she saw – but him. Her hand on her dagger, she looked down to see her favourite navy suit rapidly turning crimson. Striking fast like she was taught, she slashed Thatch’s throat from right to left, severing his trachea. Your breath catches as she watches the life drain from his body. The chill in the air cooling her face as she breathes again – as you breathe again. With one hand on her wound and the other holding her custom blade, she kicks his blood soaked body to the ground. Sheathing her knife at her side, she grabbed the remaining money on his person and exited the alley. Leaving the loan shark to bleed out by the greasy trash he resembled.

Holding the satchel tightly in one hand and her stomach with the other, she stumbled into the street. She had sustained enough injuries and inflicted enough of her own to know that her knife missed all of her vital organs, however narrowly. She needed someone to patch her up – this was one wound she couldn’t dress on her own. Tale! She’ll go to the kid. She didn’t know why he was the first person who came to mind. Maybe it was because he was the last kind person she talked to; or maybe she just didn’t have anyone else. Taking the back streets to avoid making a scene in the market area, she staggered toward The Hanging Man. When her every step gets slower – your every word harder. Her breathing becomes shallow and you realise you aren’t breathing at all.

The Hanging Man, she made it. She presses her red stained hand against the wooden doors, falling through them onto the ground. The crash catches Tale’s attention and remembering the woman from earlier, he quickly makes his way over to her. Dropping to his knees beside her and cradling her head in his hands, he asks her what happened. Straining to move her body she passed the satchel to Tale.

“This... This is for you... And your sister.” She mumbled, angling her head to look at the boy. “It belonged to Lionel Thatch – and now it belongs to you.”

“What do ya mean? What ‘appened to ya? Where’s Thatch?” He asked worriedly. She could taste the fear and panic coating every word.

“He paid me to...” She began to explain the hit, but before she could get the words out, the young face disappeared before her and she was welcomed by the cold dark nothing of unconsciousness.

She awoke to sound of a child’s voice. Alive then. Her stomach hurt – a lot. Definitely not a dream then.

“Oh thank god m’Lady!” a young man’s voice exclaimed. “Gave me a right good scare ya did!”

“My deepest apologies.” She said, chuckling slightly until it made her cough and groan in pain.

“Who are ya m’Lady?” Tale asked.

“Lysandra Kane, at your service.” She said. “And I’m not a lady, so you can drop that title.”

“What ‘appened Miss?”

“Never you mind. Just save the gold I gave you. Make it last as long as you can and take good care of that sister of yours.” She said. Feeling uncomfortably protective all of a sudden. “Did you do this?” She motioned to her freshly dressed wound. Noticing her suit and weapons had been removed and her body had been cleaned.

“Aye Miss, I did. I learned basic ‘ealing at school before I ‘ad to leave.” He said.

“Thank you Tale.” She said. Her cheeks flushed.

Days passed and Lysandra is on her feet again, making plans to leave Berdosa and start somewhere new. Be someone new. Then suddenly you realise that hours have passed and your heart was breaking for a life that isn’t real; a life that knows not of your existence but only of her own. As she leaves the small room where she has been resting, she promises the Balok’s that she will check in from time to time. Their blonde hair and skinny limbs forever marked in her heart.

Back in her navy suit, which Tale had also been kind enough to repair, she attached her cloak, fastened her weapons and bade her farewell. Swishing her long dark hair behind her and her pointed nose ahead, she walked out into a world where she was no longer an assassin. Hopeful and proud, your heart slows and your eyes dry and you swear you’ll never love a story like this again.

~ B M. B

Reflection

This was the first short story i’d written in 6 years, so I was actually pretty proud of it. We were asked to use the techniques we’d learned in the past 10 weeks within a creative piece. I definitely did A LOT WORSE than I expected to. My tutor practically hated my piece and I was pretty upset about this for a while, but i’ve realised that it’s actually okay. Our professors want the best for us: they want us to produce the best work we are capable of producing and sometimes tough love is what we need to get there! I’m grateful that I got the opportunity to learn from this experience and I look forward to next semesters creative writing subjects.

[brittreadsandwrites]

Journal entry: week 10

Turning Back Time Exercise

She stepped forward unnaming the snowman Frosty and then carefully removed the black hat from the top of the snowball. She placed it in her basket on the ground and then unwound the scarf around its neck. She pulled out the carrot in place of its nose and dropped both accessories into her basket. She slowly picked off the coal in place of its eyes and quickly plucked the pebbles making up its mouth and let them slip through her fingers to the ground. She removed the sticks from either side of the snowman and walked backwards to the garden and attached them to the tree. She scooped the snow from between the balls removing the icy glue from the snowman. She grasped the third and second snowballs in her arms and rolled the snow over the ground, Where she watched it lay gently. She used her arms to push the first snowball across the ground from where it stood. She picked up each individual snowball and unpacked them, spreading the snow onto a field of white. Finally, with her fingers she covered her perfect snowman spot and walked away.

~ B M. B

Ecriture Feminine Exercise

My back aches as I hunch over the milk steamer. My fingers stinging from the burn they just received. I should never have grabbed with milk wand without the cloth in my hand. I swear I have third degree burns. Yet I never seem to learn from my mistakes –– I need a caution hot sign stuck on every corner of the coffee machine. I laugh. What is another burn to go along with my repetitive strain injury. Though my extremities hurt, it feels good to have a use for them again. Working hard and connecting with people through my ability to tamp and pour coffee, I never knew my wrist could bend and turn in such a way as this.

~ B M. B

Reflection

I have really enjoyed these little writing challenges this semester. I didn’t know there were so many different kinds of writing styles and that was really fun to learn. I don’t seem to be quite as creatively driven as I once was and that is something I’d really love to get back and discover again. I need an ideas factory!

[brittreadsandwrites]

Journal entry: week 9

Other Tricks Exercise – Cliff Hanging

The bar was packed from one corner to the other with men and women – though the only women present were those serving pints and giving lap dances. Steamy and thick with sweat, the smell of the room alone nearly made her sick. Desperate for fresh air, she continued toward the door. She caught her tunic of the arm of a chair as she passed through, stopping herself to apologise, she turned around. Only she did not find a drunk to mumble her sorry to. There, sitting and staring directly at her... the last person she expected to see, or ever wanted to see. It was him. Immediately her cheeks reddened and beads began forming on her brow. Mumbling something unintelligible, she turned on her heel, tripping in the process and made a beeline for the door. It was raining outside, but the fresh air was just what she needed as she made her get away. Racing down the street toward her car, she took a left at the corner. There. Spotting her car she quickened her pace to a run, trying her best not to slip on the wet pavement she began to fumble around her bag for her keys. If I could just get this darn key in the door I’ll be fine, she thought. Dropping her keys accidently, she started to bend down to retrieve them – only they were caught before they hit the ground. “I think you dropped something,” said a cool calculated voice.

~ B M. B

Reflection

I played around a lot with the cliffhanger piece – trying to find the perfect cliff to leave the story hanging on. It’s harder than I thought to find the perfect hook...

[brittreadsandwrites]

Journal entry: week 8

Dialogue-Driven Narrative Exercise.

‘Why are you leaving me?’ she whispered. ‘Because staying with you means I am beholden to you Matilda,’ he says. ‘And I can’t live the rest of my life in servitude.’ ‘Who is serving who in this relationship exactly?’ ‘You are my life – But just because my whole world revolves around you doesn’t mean the rest of the world’s does.’ ‘Ah! But the world hasn’t met me yet.’ She laughs frustratedly. You’ve got to be kidding me. ‘Don’t be an ass Benjamin.’ ‘Is your quest for world domination really more important than our love?’ ‘Our love? Our love... We’ve been fighting for months!’ ‘Lovers fight all the time, it doesn’t make them arch-enemies.’ ‘Well Tilly, when my wife treats me like a villain and not her husband, it certainly feels like we’re enemies.’ ‘What happens two weeks after you leave and you’re suddenly craving sex, home cooked meals and your laundry freshly pressed?’ Silence. ‘I’d last longer than that.’ ‘Fine. Where will you go?’ ‘Home.’ ‘This is your home, and when you want it back what happens then, huh?’ ‘Will I be your wife again then?’ More silence. ‘Even arch-enemies make-up.’ ‘Go to bed Benjamin, you’re drunk.’

~ B M. B

Character Description: Direct Exposition Description.

Spending his day working from home, sprawled along the couch with his computer on his lap, Benjamin drank from his beer. He scratched at his scalp, and wondered why Matilda wasn’t making his lunch faster, as if her coming home on her lunch break to make him a meal wasn’t already something to be grateful for. His online column was mediocre, with hardly any readers. It was a job that made him feel inadequate and desire something more for himself. Tilly didn’t understand the pressures of online journalism and she didn’t understand his need to drink – it was the key to his flowing creativity. She was stifling his work and he needed to leave her. Out into the world he thought, broadcast journalism. He was too good for her alone, the whole world needed to love him.

~ B M. B

Reflection.

I enjoyed writing the dialogue. I found the more I wrote the more real the characters became to me, and the more attached I got to them. I like how you can imagine a whole story without even setting the scene, just through the dialogue. Describing them through the different techniques was trickier. I chose Exposition, but I’m not sure I hit the target with that one.

[brittreadsandwrites]

Journal entry: week 7

Symbol exercise I told him the book was a representative of my mind. For the majority of time it sits alone on the shelf gathering dust – my least favourite story, but the one I keep going back to. I pick it up delicately, I flick through the pages and I stroke the spine. He is familiar with the story, though I allow him to look, never touch. Never opening the book and reading the words. The plot too wild, the characters too complex. I fear that he may one day enter my mind’s pages and see that the protagonist is in fact an antagonist. That he may cast my book aside and never return to it. No, that I could never take. So the book remains, alone on the shelf gathering dust. His mystery novel.

~ B M. B

Figurative language exercise - Hysterical Hyperbole I’ve told him a million times not to repeat himself. The overused stories, the underused silence. He talks and talks, the constant chatter never quieting, never ceasing. I am forced to sit and listen, never getting a word in myself, though I tell him, though I try. Dating him is a tongue battle, with swords of loud noises. I tell him through the spout of my megaphone, to put the microphone down and listen.

~ B M. B

Cliché exercise It was easy to complete the work, but ultimately it was just another ordinary day. He put down his shovel as he finished the manhole he had been digging and thought, ‘Well it’s another day’s pay’. He’d been working different days but he was still doing the same old shit. Twenty-one years of believing his father's words – you can’t pull a rabbit from a hat, if you’ve got no hat. And anyway, he wouldn’t want to be one of those losers who just sit at home with a microwave meal and watches old recordings of ‘The Price is Right’.

~ B M. B

Neglected senses exercise - feel to touch Like walking through a field of long grass, my hands explored his legs. His hair bristling against my fingers, like the tall weeds would tickle my legs. The cool touch of my icy skin relieving the fiery warmth that radiates from his as I gently run my hands down his limbs.  Soft to touch, but delightfully textured – like laying down in the long grass, I rest my hand upon his shin.

~ B M. B

Movie camera exercise: Establishing shot/ extreme wide shot. A small but luminescent spot shines in the distance, guiding their way. Under instructions to follow the northern star, they had travelled with their mares for three days to meet the King. Parched and tired, finally they could see it – a castle. Built with stone upon the mountain, and surrounded by a lake, there was but one small dirt road to guide their way.

~ B M. B

Reflection I found these week 7 exercises more fun than some of the previous weeks, though whether I am improving or not I cannot say. Changing the cliches was harder than I thought it would be, but I had a lot of fun giving them a go – It definitely makes the story more interesting when you cut out all the cheap and overused phrases. I also enjoyed thinking about the camera positioning for a story/scene. Knowing that I was creating an establishing shot helped me envision the scene much clearer in my head.

[brittreadsandwrites]

Journal entry: week 6

Objects with Power Exercise

Her favourite book lay beside the cushions on the window seat – basking in the morning light. Sun rays shining in through the glass, warming its vibrant blue cover and yellowing its pages. Afraid that her book would experience further sun damage if she left it there, she walked towards the window. She looked toward the book as she walked, the wind gently blowing against it, causing the pages to flicker and whistle. She picked up the book and held it between her hands – delicately stroking the spine with her soft dainty fingers. She turned its pages to where her bookmark lay, and there, visible by the sun's gleam, was a coffee stain. She turned on her heels to face him, rage burning in her eyes. “I swear you love that book more than you love me,” he said. “I do,” she said.

~ B M. B

Ten Sentence Exercise

I cannot find the right words for this creative exercise. Leaving them until the last moment was not planned. I am tormented by words day and night. My fingers tap fervently to no resolution. I keep chopping and changing them. Why can’t I find them? How will I choose? This is hard. I’m crying. Sigh.

~ B M. B

Reflection

I really enjoyed writing the powerful object exercise, especially when I can write about books. Though I still find it difficult to not overwrite –– when I try to not overuse words, I find I can’t write any words at all. I’m not sure how to combat this. The ten sentence exercise was funny, and because I couldn’t think of a creative subject I attempted to use Dan’s way of writing about something I know, so I wrote about how I was struggling to write. I don’t think it worked as well for me as it works for him. Though I found all of this week's writing tasks interesting and I enjoyed reading about them in the textbook. However, being sick this week I found it extremely difficult to be focus my brain in a creative manner.